


The Real Life

by trixie_b



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Dawn of Aquarius universe; Froger, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22800325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trixie_b/pseuds/trixie_b
Summary: In the early hours of the morning after the Bohemian Rhapsody premiere, Roger contemplates truth and his legacy.
Relationships: Brian May & Roger Taylor, Freddie Mercury & Paul Prenter, Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury, John Deacon & Roger Taylor, Mary Austin/Freddie Mercury, Sarina Potgieter/Roger Taylor
Comments: 19
Kudos: 41





	The Real Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dawn of Aquarius](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18372263) by [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally). 



> This is a fanfic about a fanfic. It is based on nastally's froger epic 'Dawn of Aquarius', 49 chapters published as I type this. You can make sense of the story without having read DoA, but you are really missing out if you don't.  
> The characters and circumstances of this story are based on DoA. There is no attempt to represent the real Roger, Sarina, Freddie etc. It pre-supposes that Freddie and Roger had a secret romantic and sexual relationship beginning in 1969 and continuing on and off for years. Brian knew about some of it, but not all the recurrences.
> 
> Sarina is Roger's real wife.  
> The Sheffields were Queen's original managers, immortalised in Flick of the Wrist and Death on Two Legs.  
> Phoebe is Peter Freestone, Freddie's personal assistant. He joined the organisation in 1979.  
> Prenter is Paul Prenter. He was Queen's daily manager and then Freddie's personal manager. After his sacking, he sold Freddie's story to the papers, outing him to the world.  
> Jim is Jim Hutton, Freddie's partner from 1985 until his death. Jim passed away in 2000 from lung cancer, having lived with AIDS for many years.  
> Tim is Tim Staffell, member of Smile, the precursor to Queen. Smile are a going concern in DoA. Will they make it big?  
> Claire is Roger's sister.
> 
> If you don't know who Brian and John are, then why are you reading this?

_For nastally, and all that she has given us._

“Christ, I’m exhausted,” Roger groaned as he closed the door behind him. Sarina turned and smiled as she hung her coat on the rack. The apartment was quiet; the ambient lighting welcoming them as they walked through the foyer into the living room. It was a welcome change from the noise and chaos of the night.

“I’m not surprised, darling. It’s been an exhausting week.” She paused. “Happy exhausted, though?” Sarina pulled him into her embrace.

Roger kissed her once. “Always happy with you.”

Sarina laughed and let him go. “You charmer. They got that right about you at least.”

Roger laughed too. Sarina was not fond of the way the movie had represented him. Where was his kindness? His intelligence? His loyalty? All those qualities that she loved about him.

“Ah, who cares?” Roger replied, lowering himself into his Eames lounge chair, an audible breath escaping as he hefted his feet onto the stool. “Not the point of the exercise.” He looked up at her still standing and held his hand out. “Do you think they liked it? They sounded as though they liked it.”

She took his hand in hers. “They loved it. They sang, they smiled, they cried. They loved every second of it. They adored Rami.”

“They adored Freddie.” He gave her hand a squeeze and let go. “Always did. Always will.” He looked her in the eye and let out a sardonic chuckle. “Critics”ll hate it.”

She laughed. “Of course.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way. Hm, how do you think Bri handled it?”

“I know Anita was a bit worried, but he seemed to be really happy about it.”

“Good, good. I thought so, too. Thank god for small mercies.”

Sarina began her walk toward the hallway. “Well, I’m going to get all this paint off, have a shower and head to bed. You coming?” When no answer was heard, she stopped in the doorway. “Darling, are you coming?”

Roger startled. “Sorry, love. Miles away. I might stay down here for a few minutes. Clear my head a bit. I’m exhausted AND wired. Don’t think I could sleep, yet. That alright by you?”

She gave him a look of understanding. It hadn’t just been the late night, the hundreds of photos, the fans, the party that had been exhausting. It was the years leading up to tonight, when it had seemed as though the movie would never happen; it had been the relentless “Where’s John?” questions that could never be happily answered, and the idiotic shouts of “Do you still miss Freddie?” repeated endlessly.

“Course not, love. You come to bed when you’re ready.” She blew him a kiss and disappeared from view.

Roger sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. It had gone well. People had really seemed to like it; to be swept up in it. Ending with Live Aid had been the right choice. Sure, they’d had to smudge a few timelines and smooth a few edges: Live Aid had been a busy day, but not so busy as to include Fred finding Jim and coming out to his parents as well. 

He opened his eyes and looked around the room in the gentle light. There were few mementos of Queen in here: they were mostly at home in Surrey. His London flat was more generically, if luxuriously, furnished, with a few Queen touches here and there, like the gold records in the second loo and the giant close-up portrait of him in his full ‘Break Free’ face hanging in the foyer. He’d put that up as a joke: he loved to watch tradesmen’s faces when they saw it. They’d sometimes give it a whistle or an appreciative comment. Then they’d look at the hitherto anonymous old geezer in front of them, look back at it and slowly realise whose house they were in. Roger would flash them a quick pout and smile as their faces reddened. Well, at least the ones over 40. The others would just say “Woah, she’s fit” and get on with their work, leaving Roger to have a little chuckle to himself. He had thought of adding a full length shot, showing off his legs, but had been loudly dissuaded by his family.

Roger liked the movie. It had set out to do what he wanted: to showcase their music and to show the world the Freddie they had known and still loved, in all his complicated glory. He hoped that the scene where Freddie showed him Garden Lodge and he left Fred alone didn’t make people angry at him. Where other people had tears in their eyes during Live Aid, this was the scene that made him well up. It had never really happened, but he still felt guilty. In reality, he’d been there for Freddie so many times, on the phone and in person. He had tried so hard to save Freddie’s heart and, just when he thought it finally safe with Jim, he had failed to save Freddie’s body. No matter what people said, how people (Brian) reasoned with him, he always believed that he should have saved Fred. If only, if only …

He shook his head and schooled himself: stop being so bloody maudlin and self-indulgent. Tonight was about celebration, not blame. It was about giving Freddie back to the world, reminding them of him, in case they had dared to forget. He fervently hoped the world would join in the celebration.

He was right, though, the critics would hate it. They would say it was self-aggrandizing; that it was designed to make him and Brian look good at Fred’s expense; that their music was still crap and that it was factually incorrect. He had to admit that the lack of historical fact had worried him at first. No, that wasn’t how they had met; Fred hadn’t made them sell their van; they hadn’t started out with John Reid. On the other hand, there had been a great deal of satisfaction in erasing the Sheffields from history. When the film was first mooted, they had been sticklers for accuracy. He and Brian had filled pages with corrections and amendments, but, eventually, they had agreed that a movie was not a documentary (he could imagine how often he was going to have to say that in interviews) and that there had to be a certain shaping of events to fit the length and structure of a film. So, they had focussed on getting the essence of Fred right. That was what mattered.

Brian had produced his own sort of autobiography, using his stereoscopic pictures. Roger liked that: he always responded to visual stimuli. He especially liked the candid ones that caught them as they really were, rather than how they wanted to be seen. Brian was a collector (Roger preferred the word ‘hoarder’) and had kept almost every piece of paper he had ever touched, so there had been a lot of material to sift through. It had been one of Brian’s ‘projects’ and Roger had fully supported him, because it was good business and because those projects helped keep Brian’s mood on as even a keel as it ever managed to be.

Many publishers had suggested he tell his own life story. They had tried to persuade him by saying “How interesting your life has been”; “There’s a real demand for rock star life stories”; “Your legacy will be assured”; “You can set the record straight” and offering him a lot of cash. He had, accurately, translated their entreaties as “Tell us salacious things about Freddie’s sex life” and had refused all, deflecting them with claims of still being a callow youth and not having done anything worth wasting people’s time. It was not a story he would ever tell the world.

“Because”, he whispered to the room, “it is all a lie.” Everything people believed they knew about him and his relationships with Freddie, with Brian, with John, with everyone was a lie. Not an “I didn’t do it and was never there” type of lie, but a lie of omission. The biggest lie of all. The truth, the central truth of his whole life; that he and Freddie had been lovers, had been in love, had given to each other their bodies and souls, had been completely omitted from their story. It was the one fact that influenced everything he and Freddie had done, that the band had done to this very day. Hell, he could even make a case that every other event and relationship in his life had this hole at the centre. Every other lover had been ‘not Freddie’; his children: ‘something he and Freddie could never have had’; every hand held and mouth kissed in the sight of others had been ‘what he and Freddie could never have done’. He could measure his life in Freddies: when I met Freddie; when we became lovers; when we broke up; when we started the band; when he got sick, when he died. Life was Before Freddie (BF); During Freddie (DF) and After Freddie (AF). So, what did it matter if the movie got things wrong? It could never had told the true story anyway.

Roger realised he had been staring into space. He shook his head, sighed and stood. But he didn’t take a step to leave; instead, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. There, amongst all the cards were some photos: his children, Sarina, his mother and sister and the other one, him and Freddie, when the world was young and time was endless. Or, 1969 to be more accurate.

The photograph showed him and Fred in their stall in Kensington Market. It wasn’t the original, that was in a frame at home. The original showed him in the centre, with a girl whose name he could no longer remember on one side and Freddie, reaching across him on the other. The copy showed only the portion of him and Fred. He liked it because they were both looking straight at the camera, daring it to uncover their secret. There were a few photos taken in their stall: some with other friends, even Mary. There was one where he was looking through a newspaper for a flat for him and Fred after he had been evicted because of their sex life. It had been thrilling to have that secret between them, that they were going to live together as lovers, while everyone else had been oblivious.

He carefully slipped the photo out of the wallet and sat back down. Running his thumb across Freddie’s image, he felt tears begin to form. His beautiful, magnificent boy. Their love had consumed him: he had been prepared to give up ever having sex with a woman again just to be with Fred. Of course, it hadn’t turned out that way. They were too young; the world made it too hard. Instead their relationship had ebbed and flowed, started and stalled across the years. They would spend months, even years resisting each other and the pull of their bodies and hearts, and then they would give in and be overcome by each other again. Finally, finally, they had let that part of their lives go and had transformed that passion into a different, but no less profound, state. They had been in love until the moment Fred died. Hell, even that hadn’t stopped Roger being in love with Fred. He wasn’t usually a sentimental man, but in some quiet moments when he couldn’t sleep, he could almost convince himself that Fred’s love was still there, just around the corner or floating past.

If the truth were ever told, Roger thought, there would be a lot of changes to the Queen story. Who ‘Love of my life’ was about for one; as well as ‘Nevermore’. He and Fred had watched for years as people had twisted themselves into knots over ‘Love’ and how it related to Fred and Mary’s relationship. Fred never explained his lyrics and it had proven to be a sound policy. ‘You Take My Breath Away” may have ended up being about David Minns, but it had started out being about Roger. Roger knew he was present in every song Fred wrote about his broken heart and search for ‘the one’. There were so many references that only the two of them ever understood. Or perhaps, he admitted, occasionally, three of them. Brian had said that he believed ‘Lily of the Valley’ to be Fred’s expression of his struggle with his sexuality; that while he was with one person (generically a woman, specifically Mary); he ached to be with another (generically a man, specifically Roger), but he never once alluded to Roger’s role in Fred’s struggle.

Brian had been the great keeper of their secret. Whilst unable to maintain secrets about himself, as readily demonstrated by what Roger thought of as ‘Brian May’s Infidelity: Songs in the Key of Guilt’, he had never once breathed a word to anyone about Fred and Roger. He and Roger had spoken about it many times in the early years, and occasionally later. He had been the only one to truly grasp the depth of Roger’s grief when Fred became ill. Roger remembered the night when he was almost hysterical with grief, blaming himself for Freddie’s death, screaming that if he had only loved Fred better, he’d still be alive. Brian had listened to it all and held him as his screams turned to sobs and eventual silence. He knew that Brian had always been ready to offer Fred an ear, a few words or even just a knowing look about their affair, but that Freddie had usually run and hid from those gestures, sometimes literally. Roger suspected that Brian had once successfully broached the topic in the aftermath of the last time he and Fred ever had sex, in 1983. There had been something about the way Brian had looked at him afterwards; a little nod of the head and grin between Bri and Fred when the band reconvened and Roger told them an edited version of his visit to Munich. Bri had said “So, you showed each other a good time, hey?” and Fred had giggled in a way that made Roger very suspicious.

And what about John? Had he ever guessed? Roger and Fred were past the first flush of romance when John joined them, but they were far from done. Had John ever seen anything, heard anything that gave them away? He never said anything, well, he wouldn’t, would he? Roger recalled the quiet that could emanate from John. Quiet, but always seeing. Sometimes he would sit on the edge of the drum riser, bass in hand, fingers tapping away, his eyes taking in everything around him. Roger’s usual view of John had been his back, but he knew there were raised eyebrows, quiet chuckles, frowns and smiles. Nothing got past him. Roger suspected that John had known exactly what was going on.

Roger looked down at the photograph again, this time with a smile. Look at the both of them. So young. And Freddie so handsome, his dark eyes glistening, a half-smile on his face. That smile. When they first met, Fred had always used his hand to cover his mouth when smiling. As their intimacy blossomed, Roger had been gifted with many unabashed smiles, where Freddie was open and vulnerable before him, all thought of embarrassing teeth gone. 

One of those times came to mind now. It had happened when they first earned real money. Roger had bought a dangerously sexy car, designed to move very, very fast. It was impossible to take her up to top speed on the road (and he had tried), so he had paid to drive on one those race tracks where you could open the engine, push down the accelerator and just go. He had asked Freddie to join him and they had driven out. He pictured them with the top down and their hair streaming in the wind. In actuality, the top had been firmly closed and they had both been wearing helmets, but the other image felt so much truer. What were real were Freddie’s shrieks as they slid around corners, his hand clutching Roger’s knee. When they finished the first lap Fred had whipped off his helmet and laughed uproariously. With a huge grin he had let out a whoop of “Again! Again!” and so they had continued around and around into the darkening night.

Fred had told everyone about that day, with a huge smile on his face “And Roger was so masterful, darling. I wasn’t scared for one second.” Roger had accepted the accolade with a bow. Those smiles he had been happy to share. Their most precious, private moments and smiles remained just between them, secret distillations of their love. Even Brian hadn’t been privileged with those details.

There were so many details and moments of which he was now the sole guardian. When he was gone, they would also be gone. When Brian and John were gone, would there be anyone who knew any part of their story?

Roger’s hand slipped under his shirt collar and rubbed at his collar bone. Was there anyone else who knew their whole, true story or even a part of it. Who had been around in those early days? Tim? He’d been with them almost as much as Brian in ‘69, but he’d had his own love life and musical ambitions to think about. No, Roger was sure that Tim hadn’t known. Nor had any of his Cornwall friends, despite the evidence before their eyes. There was another photograph of them, this time on the beach at Newquay, part of the big group celebrating Brian’s birthday. Amongst the wind-blown hair and happy faces, they stood together with Roger’s arm around Fred’s waist, but in 1969, people’s mind had not so readily leapt to the idea of two men in love and so they remained safely hidden in view.

Had his mother or Claire suspected? Despite him and Fred having sex twenty feet away with only an unlocked door for privacy, Roger firmly believed that they had no idea of what had been happening. Mind you, if he told Claire now, he was sure she would claim “I knew it!” But she hadn’t, of that he was certain.

The people he was living with when the whole thing started had known. They had evicted him because of that knowledge. He wondered if they had ever connected their old lodger and his boyfriend with Roger Taylor and Freddie Mercury of Queen. They’d certainly never sold their story to the papers.

And there had been that hippy girl, hadn’t there? Into open relationships and all that. The one who had convinced Roger to take the leap with Fred by comparing him to ice cream or something. She’d never gone to the tabloids either. He sent up a whispered “Thank you” to her for both of those kindnesses.

He knew that he’d never told anyone, but had Freddie? Not his family, that was for sure. Not Prenter or he would have sold them both out. Phoebe? It was possible, but Phoebe would guard Freddie’s secrets to the grave. Jim? Also possible, but Jim was gone as well. Mary?

“Ah”, he spoke to Freddie’s image, “Did you ever tell your Mary about us?” Roger believed not and he fully supported that decision: their love story would have destroyed hers. Freddie had often been unfaithful to Mary, physically and emotionally, with Roger. The start of the Freddie/Mary relationship had been based on the big lie, the untold story. Without knowing it, Mary had been Freddie’s decoy even when they were still just friends. Later, when Freddie had confessed his relationship with David to her and admitted to her and himself that he was gay, she had been forced to confront the possibility that Freddie had never been faithful to her. He’d fucked random men throughout, and random women as well, especially when they were on tour. Brian had often told the press about the other women in recent times. Everyone in the band and crew had known about the women and kept the secret, but only Roger had known about the men then, sometimes guessed at, sometimes confirmed. Mary had coped by telling herself that those encounters meant nothing, they were one-night only fripperies. It hurt her, yes, but could be explained away by the “rock star life”. What could never have been explained that way was the love between him and Fred, competing with her own. No, Fred would never have put her through that pain.

So, that was it really. A tiny handful, perhaps only two or three people alive who knew about them, and that was counting himself. Did that matter? Who cared if their story died with him, unspoken? It had been kept secret by necessity at first and by choice afterward. Freddie didn’t speak of it, so Roger did the same. He’d kept it to himself for all these years, long after the story could hurt Freddie or him.

Roger understood the world, when it thought of him at all, gave him three identifiers: drummer, the pretty one and womaniser. (“They’d probably use the word ‘slut’ today”, he thought, “but in admiration.”) Even the most ardent Queen fan probably only added a few more: drummer, singer, songwriter, the pretty one and womaniser. People credited him with being charismatic and good in bed; how else had he been so successful with women? Well, fame and money, of course, but he had been adept at winnowing out those women at the one-night stand stage and only pursued those who he could tell were really interested in him. “There must be something about him,” he imagined them saying with a nudge and wink. “His wife’s a real looker and so much younger.”

If the world knew the whole truth, it would be forced to revise its definition of him: drummer, the pretty one, womaniser … and Freddie’s boyfriend? He could hear the pundits discussing him now, saying he was “an exemplary illustration of the fluid nature of sexuality and the ability of the most ostentatiously heterosexual of men to accommodate desire in its transgressive forms.” It made him sound like a sheep shagger. The Freddie truthers, those who claimed to know and understand Freddie better than his actual friends, would vacillate between declaring it a lie and proclaiming that they had known all along.

“Fuck ‘em!” he declared to the room at large. “Those bastards don’t deserve to know.” But the thought was growing in his mind and the certainty in his heart, that he didn’t want their story to disappear, unacknowledged forever. If he was honest, it had been there in the background for a while now, but the movie had brought it to the forefront. He wanted someone else to know his truth, his whole self, to share with him just how incredible it had all been. So joyful, passionate, terrible, sorrowful and all encompassing. To laugh with him at their ridiculous attempts to cover up the Fred’s moans by turning the record player up. To cry with him over their many, many agonies and troubles. To know just how much he had loved Freddie and still did. He could talk to Brian, he knew, and Brian would listen dutifully and feel honoured by the confidences placed in him, all the while desperately hoping that Roger wouldn’t go into details about the sex. But Brian already knew the story, or at least a large part of it; already knew the truth of Roger’s depths of character. No. Talking to Roger wouldn’t bring more truth to the world.

He looked at Fred’s photo again. “I hope you’re okay with this, my love. I think you would be, now. The world has changed.” He could imagine Freddie fixing him with one of their secret smiles, saying “Go for it. You have my blessing.” Roger held the photo close and kissed Freddie’s forehead. “Goodnight, my darling. Thank you for everything.”

He gently placed the photo back in his wallet and returned it to his pocket. He had been exhausted when he had sat down but felt energised now. He turned the lights out as walked through the flat. It seemed as though he had been in the chair for hours, but it only been about 15 minutes. As he approached the master suite, he could hear Sarina still going through her post-party routine. He drew in a big breath.

“Sarina? Sweetheart? Are you very tired? I need to talk to you about something.”

“Oh, sure. Is everything okay?” She turned to look at him as he entered the bathroom.

“It’s all fine. Good, in fact. I just want to tell you something about Freddie. About Freddie and me.”

Sarina gave him an encouraging smile. He continued.

“You know how we met each other in ‘69, but you don’t know what happened afterwards. And, I think, it’s finally time for me to tell you our story, the true story of Roger Taylor and Freddie Mercury. The real life.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you read 'Secret' by nastally, you will know more about what John knew than Roger does.
> 
> I will add some more notes here when my injured elbow stops hurting. Mostly they are the imagined advertising campaign for the release of 'Brian May's Infidelity: Songs in the Key of Guilt'.
> 
> Go here to see the photo: https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/194288171411255507/


End file.
